


on our sweetest night (you'll come home)

by anomalousity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Charles works for MI6, Erik is a historian, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 00:21:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1708028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalousity/pseuds/anomalousity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not that Erik really phoned a lot. Since he’d gone off to research the anomalies in World War Two data, which is now running up on six months, he’d hardly been around at all save for sporadic and short visits back to Charles’ under the premise of ‘needing a break’. They do text, and they do talk, but it’s always stale; Charles leaves the conversations feeling somewhat shortchanged.</p><p>Regardless, they haven’t spoken in at least two weeks. Charles tries to keep that in mind as he presses the replay button once more, listening to Erik’s voice gasp out sounds he hadn’t thought the man capable of.</p><p>“Fuck,” he breathes, hot and harsh into Charles’ ear. “Fuck, just like that.”</p><p>The line cuts out after a few more gasping breaths, a lower, baritone voice grunting, “yeah, you like it like that, don’t you,” and a very unbecoming whimper. Needless to say, Charles is beyond red and when he pulls the phone from his ear, he doesn’t bother to check anything else.</p><p>Instead, he grabs his jacket, his wallet, and heads to the nearest pub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on our sweetest night (you'll come home)

It’s not that Erik really phoned a lot. Since he’d gone off to research the anomalies in World War Two data, which is now running up on six months, he’d hardly been around at all save for sporadic and short visits back to Charles’ under the premise of ‘needing a break’. They do text, and they do talk, but it’s always stale; Charles leaves the conversations feeling somewhat shortchanged.

Regardless, they haven’t spoken in at least two weeks. Charles tries to keep that in mind as he presses the replay button once more, listening to Erik’s voice gasp out sounds he hadn’t thought the man capable of.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hot and harsh into Charles’ ear. “Fuck, just like that.”

The line cuts out after a few more gasping breaths, a lower, baritone voice grunting, “yeah, you like it like that, don’t you,” and a very unbecoming whimper. Needless to say, Charles is beyond red and when he pulls the phone from his ear, he doesn’t bother to check anything else.

Instead, he grabs his jacket, his wallet, and heads to the nearest pub.

-

“What’s got your panties in a bunch?”

Raven downs a glass of vodka in one gulp before swiping her wrist over her lips and scrutinizing Charles. He fidgets in his seat, scrubbing his finger over the lip of his own glass of beer before meeting her eyes.

“I-” he starts, not knowing how to phrase that he’s heard his second best friend definitely having sex with another man and definitely enjoying it. Not that Charles minds Erik being with men; he’s harbored an interest in men and women alike since he can remember. It’s just a surprise.

No one just calls their friend to moan like that; maybe he was drunk? Maybe it was accidental? Charles wouldn’t know. Erik hardly remembers to keep his phone handy, much less to actually leave messages when Charles doesn’t pick up, and it just doesn’t add up. Why Charles of all people?

“C’mon, spit it out Xavier.” Raven is only patronizing when she gazes across the table, seventh glass of vodka freshly downed as her finger traces over the edge of the small cup. “Is it a girl?”

He shrugs, supposing that she’s correct in a sense. In another, more truer sense, she’s far off base. Charles doesn’t have feelings for his friend. How could he? He’s only ever felt a more brotherly sense of camaraderie with Raven, confirmed in their last year of high school when she pressed her lips flush against his and pulled away with an unseemly chortle.

The bartender is watching her; he can see the man’s hungry gaze out of his peripherals. It’s not that Raven isn’t a looker, because she is what with the small dress and her long, tanned legs. She’s beautiful from any angle, intelligent in a conniving, duplicitous way.

He turns his attention back to his glass before asking, “Has anyone ever, uh, called you when they were…?” Oh God, he’s blushing. He ducks his head, hoping that she doesn’t see the pink that’s definitely coloring his cheeks.

She sees it anyways and reaches across the table to pat the back of his hand. “Oh, Charles, did someone sex dial you?”

There’s no point in lying about it. “Yes.”

He doesn’t have to meet her eyes to know she’s rolling them. She snickers under her breath before her hand twists above his own, nimble fingers interweaving themselves within his own before patiently waiting for him to respond.

He glances up, quelling an instinctive flinch when he notices Raven’s soft smile.

“If you’re thinking about it this seriously,” she says. “It must be someone who matters.”

Charles hates the curl of intent that curls in his gut to lie, to claim that no, the person doesn’t matter. But he _is_ thinking about it seriously, and he _hasn’t_ deleted the voice message though he knows any sensible would have by now. He knows that Raven knows more than him about these matters, and he knows to keep his mouth shut and listen when she gives him advice.

Knowing tugs at the corners of her eyes. “Next time you see this… _person_ ,” Charles doesn’t miss the way she stresses the word. “You should talk to them about it.”

It’s exactly what he expected her to say, and it’s exactly what he doesn’t want to do.

-

The rest of the week, he’s harried. He checks his phone ten times a minute, hoping for a text message that will right the call, tell him it’s an accident, tell him that he’s sorry. He considers calling Erik himself, but just as his thumb hovers over the green call button, he’s filled with a dread so intense that he nearly tosses his phone across the room.

He goes to work as usual, writes his scripts, consults with too curious up-and-coming detectives, ignores deadlines in favor of catering to his growing need for comfort. He goes to bars, smiles and flirts with men and women alike, goes home with a German man called Franz with soft hands and even softer eyes.

Charles kisses down his neck, humming over the soft skin when Franz breathes a contented sigh. He smirks against his flesh before inching downwards, seeking out the places that’ll make the man twitch and groan and grip at Charles’ hair.

When his chin is brushing over the curls of light brown hair at his groin, Franz tugs his hair until he looks up.

“Hey,” he says, his accent thick and suggestive of a southern upbringing.

Charles just smiles in response. “Hey yourself.”

Franz’s lips twist into a frown, but he shrugs and reclines against Charles’ pillows. The tenseness in his abdominals doesn’t subside, however, so Charles climbs back up his body, propping himself on his elbows above the man and scrutinizing him.

“What is it?” he asks.

The man hesitates a moment, clear grey-blue eyes flitting from Charles’ lips to his eyes and back again. When it gets to be too much, Charles stifles a groan and ducks forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

It’s only when he reciprocates that Franz mumbles against Charles’ lips, “Who’s Erik?”

If Charles didn’t know any better, he’d say he’d been dowsed in cold water. He pulls off of Franz’s body and rolls to the side, trying to quell the erratic rhythm of his heart and the point focus of his mind on intelligent green-grey eyes and a clipped, subtle Polish accent.

He couldn’t have picked a more awkward moment to focus on that voice breathing heavy in his ear. He couldn’t, and yet he feels heat stir low in his gut at the thought of drawing those noises from an old friend.

“A friend,” he replies. “Just… a friend.”

-

The insistent knocking at his door draws him from his book.

Charles places his makeshift bookmark between the pages and lets it slip from his lap as he walks to the door. The hand raps against the door once more and Charles groans as he unfastens the locks.

“I’m here,” he says once he unlatches the deadbolt and twists the handle, only to find Erik’s wide eyes staring back at him.

Neither man says anything for a few moments. Charles lets his gaze drop to the droplets of rain dripping from Erik’s chin and onto the wood floorboards, follows the trail of a languid bead sliding from the tips of his drenched hair, down the side of his face, and off the jut of his jaw.

He clears his throat when he realizes he was staring and steps aside to let him in.

“It’s been a while.” Charles walks towards the kitchen, trying to remember if he bought tea and snacks. Erik likes those cookies Raven used to buy from that one little shop in New York, but she hasn’t been away from London in over three months and Charles highly doubts he has any left from the last time Erik stopped in. “How are things for you?”

He hears the flop of Erik’s coat landing somewhere with a wet squelch. “Well,” he replies, voice a little more scratchy than usual. Charles’ mind flits back to that message, and he blushes before busying himself with his search. “My team found hundreds of thousands worth of art stolen by Nazi soldiers last month.”

“Really?”

“I have an especially promising pupil,” Erik says.

Charles wonders if that’s the man who drew those moans from his friend. He tries to imagine someone who Erik would classify as an ‘especially promising pupil’ and falls short. He’s no doubt intelligent, probably obscenely handsome, and Charles would bet that he’s clever and more than a little talented.

So when the question leaves his lips without his permission, he’s really surprised he doesn’t get socked in the face. “Would this be the pupil you were sleeping with a month ago?” He turns, his face nearly bumping into Erik’s chest when he finds him standing a lot closer than he expected.

“What?” Erik asks, looking the picture of confused.

Charles shrugs, feeling a blush warm his cheeks before turning around and plucking potato chips from his cupboard. “You left me a message a month ago, and it was…” His cheeks grow warmer.

He feels warm puffs of breath against his neck and he wants to turn and see what expressions Erik is wearing. He wants to see understanding, but he wants to see _more_. Erik’s radio silence following the call allowed Charles to do some thinking of his own, and what he found was that this was _agonizing_.

“It was agonizing, Erik.” It was amazing, but he wants to see it for himself.

Warm hands drop to Charles’ hips and maneuver him around and it’s all Charles can do to not yelp or squeak or God knows what else. Erik’s eyes are pinned to his lips, a light pink blush dances high on his cheeks, and his tongue peeks out to wet his lips.

Charles stills, waiting for him to eradicate those few centimeters separating them.

When he does, it’s surprisingly soft. Erik’s hands slide up his back, cup his shoulder blades as he tilts his head a fraction downwards. His eyes are shut, delicate lashes brushing over his cheekbones as he kisses Charles thoughtless.

He pulls away too quickly, lips curling into a tiny smile.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that, Xavier.”

-

Erik’s hand is warm against his skin.

Charles wakes up to a rainy morning and a pair of warm arms surrounding his body. He can feel Erik’s breathing beneath his ear, the reassuring pump of his heart beating up a storm. Charles snuggles closer, scrubbing his face in the soft fabric of Erik’s t-shirt before pulling out of the cocoon of his arms and stretching.

“Good morning,” he says.

The bed is softer than usual, more comfortable. Erik’s presence makes the morning a little more bearable, his soft smile and softer fingertips comforting in a way that one night stands can never provide.

He’s smiling when Charles looks at him. He’s beaming when he hooks a leg over Erik’s hips and straddles him before ducking to kiss him breathless, sighing into his mouth when he parts his lips, completely uncaring that they both have morning breath.

Erik’s hands are soft when they slide up Charles’ back, his breath hot when they break apart. Helpless notes fall from his tongue when Charles’ slides down his body, when he tugs off his clothes, when he kisses all of the skin he can reach.

He breathes out a soft moan when Charles slides into him.

It’s better than he thought. Not just for the sounds, but for the way Erik’s lips curl into a smirk when Charles finds a spot that works for him. He tries to make that smirk fall away, and he succeeds when he wraps his fingers around Erik and pumps him in time with his hips. Choked gasps and sweet nothings bless his ears as heat curls hot down his spine, electricity burns between his legs and low in his gut.

Erik’s eyes go wide when he spills over, a soft moan of Charles’ name hissed between his teeth as he clenches down. Charles follows not a moment later.

When they’re collapsed and sweaty and uncomfortable, Erik rolls onto his side and gives Charles a beautiful, toothy smile. His fingers are soft over his chest, his gaze almost timid as he traces his eyes down Charles’ front. After a moment, he looks back up and nudges Charles’ ribs.

“For the record,” he murmurs. “You’re the most ‘promising’ person I’ve ever met.”

And if Charles’ heart stutters in his chest, and if her burrows his face against Erik’s stomach to hide his blush, that’s their business. No one but them is listening.


End file.
